The Medieval Murderers - The Tainted Relic

‘Did you ask Kip about his fight with Bulmer?’

Michael nodded. ‘While we were waiting to borrow the ladder. It was all Bulmer’s fault, of course: Kip was innocently drinking ale when Bulmer attacked him. Bulmer is a troublemaker, and Kip knows that-without independent witnesses, it will be impossible to prove who started the fracas.’

Given his own recent experiences with the sullen servants, Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘Did you ask what they were quarrelling about?’

Michael waved a dismissive hand. ‘I did not, but it will be over poorly cleaned shoes, or whether Bulmer paid Kip enough for making his bed. It will be nothing of consequence.’

‘Ask him,’ suggested Bartholomew.

Michael sighed, but did as he suggested.

‘Bulmer was spying,’ came the unexpected reply. Kip was simultaneously indignant and sanctimonious, neither expressions that sat well on his pugilistic features. ‘Prior Morden does not approve of behaviour that brings Dominicans into disrepute, so I suggested Bulmer should stop. He refused, and we fought. He threw the first punch, though, as I told you earlier, Brother.’

Michael scratched his chin. ‘And whom was Bulmer spying on?’

‘He was lurking outside St Andrew’s Church, where the whores display their wares. It was even more reason to send him back to his prior.’

‘Right,’ said Michael flatly. ‘And your sole intention was to protect the Dominicans’ reputation?’

Bartholomew grabbed his arm and tugged him out of earshot. ‘Several prostitutes do work near that church, and Bulmer is the kind of novice to forget his vow of celibacy and hire one now and again. But Seton mentioned that Tomas also visits St Andrew’s Church-as does Seton himself, and perhaps Witney, too. I think you should interview Bulmer and find out exactly what he was doing when he was caught by his friary’s servants.’

With Michael and the Roughe brothers holding the bottom of the ladder, Bartholomew climbed to the top, expecting at every step that a rung would break and send him tumbling to the ground below. Then he became aware of Tomas behind him.

‘What are you doing?’ he demanded, grasping the rungs tightly.

‘It is much safer with two,’ replied Tomas. ‘Brother Michael declined to oblige, and I do not think Kip or John would be much help, so I came myself.’

Bartholomew nodded his thanks, and stepped on to the roof, clutching one of the bands that held the thatch in place. As he did so, and while his balance was at its most precarious, the ladder jerked to one side.

‘Hey!’ came Michael’s angry voice as Bartholomew scrabbled to gain a handhold. ‘Be careful!’

‘I am sorry,’ said John, not sounding at all repentant. ‘My hand slipped.’

‘Then do not let it slip again,’ called Tomas, shocked. Bartholomew glanced at him and saw that his face was white. ‘Bartholomew almost fell, and so did I.’

‘You might topple to your dooms yet,’ called Kip carelessly. ‘I had to climb on the friary thatch a few weeks ago, and it was very slippery. Men who poke about on roofs are asking for accidents.’

While Bartholomew pondered what sounded ominously like a threat, he became aware that the ladder was moving again, as Tomas clambered up next to him.

‘Do not stand there,’ advised Tomas. ‘Go to your right.’

‘Why?’ demanded Bartholomew, declining to comply. He did not feel comfortable so far above the ground, and disliked the way his legs were shaking.

‘Big Thomas was a thatcher, and knows a lot about roofs. He told me never to stand where you are now, because that is the part most vulnerable to decay and instability.’

Hastily, Bartholomew followed the advice, and together he and the Dominican made their way towards the chimney. At one point he started to slide, but Tomas caught his wrist and held it until he had regained his footing. He smiled his gratitude weakly, wanting the examination over so that he could descend to the ground again. When they reached the chimney, Bartholomew stopped in surprise, and exchanged a startled glance with Tomas. There was a harness fastened around it, as though someone else had been there and had wanted to make sure he would not take a tumble.

‘Is this from last year?’ Bartholomew wondered. ‘When the roof was repaired?’

Tomas shook his head. ‘It is recent-the rope is almost new.’

Bartholomew grabbed the chimney in a rough embrace and squinted down it, praying someone would not choose that moment to light a fire. There was a narrow ledge just inside, and several broken tiles had been placed on it.

‘Missiles,’ mused Tomas thoughtfully, lifting one out to inspect. ‘It looks as though someone intended to drop them down the chimney. They have not been here long, because they would be more covered in soot if they had.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You know rather a lot about this kind of thing.’

‘I was a proctor-or its equivalent-at Pécs, and investigated far more deaths than would be considered decent by my order. I became quite adept at it.’

Bartholomew returned his friendly smile, trying to hide the clamouring thought that would not be silenced: had Brother Tomas learned enough from solving murders to be skilled at committing one himself?

Bartholomew felt considerably happier once his feet were back on firm ground. He told Michael what he had seen, and added in an undertone that the monk was not the only one with experience as a proctor who was interested in Witney’s death. Michael was troubled by both revelations. He watched Tomas remove the ladder from the wall and issue the Roughe brothers with instructions for returning it to its owners. The pair picked it up reluctantly, as though they were troubled not only by the weight, but because they had hoped to learn what had been discovered on the roof. After a moment, Tomas decided to go with them, apparently thinking they could not be trusted to carry out his orders unsupervised. They were slovenly and insolent, and Bartholomew thought he was right to be watchful-long ladders were expensive, and the Dominicans would be obliged to pay for another if their servants left Bene’t’s somewhere it could be stolen.

‘When I am rich, I am going to buy one of these,’ muttered John, as they made their way down the street. ‘If I charge a penny each time someone wants it, I will make a fortune.’

‘Peterhouse paid to use this one three times last week,’ agreed Kip. ‘And the Gilbertines borrowed it four, because of pigeons. Witney had it once or twice for pigeons, too. Remember Urban knocking that nest down for him? Feathers everywhere!’

‘So, Seton was right after all,’ mused Michael unhappily as their chattering voices receded. ‘He said Witney had been murdered, and now you discover evidence that someone harnessed himself to the roof with a pile of missiles at the ready. Obviously, Seton would not have insisted on an investigation if he was the killer.’ He considered for a moment, unwilling to dismiss his prime suspect too readily. ‘Or was he calling our bluff-hoping the very act of ordering us to look into the matter would annoy us into doing the opposite?’

‘I doubt it, Brother,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It is too risky. Besides, he was in St Andrew’s Church with independent alibis at the time of Witney’s murder. I was right in my original assumption: the Carmelites are the villains. I doubt Andrew is agile enough to scale roofs, so we must look to Urban.’

But Michael shook his head. ‘You are wrong; they are not killers. A powerful relic, like the one they carry, would not allow itself to be toted by evil hands.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance, thinking about the many acts of wickedness they had witnessed in the past, when sacred objects had suffered all manner of indignities in the hands of wicked men. ‘Do you really believe that?’